Carpe Nocturne ch 1
The dust swirled around my feet and the hot February sun beat down viciously at my back. The sharp stones pricked through my flip-flops and sent jabs of pain into my already swollen feet. I grumbled to myself and cursed the sky. Darn whether, I growled. It's February, for crying out loud! I wiped my hand across my forehead, trying in vain to dry it off. My shirt and shorts were already plastered to my skin, and I still had a good mile to go. The dirt crunched and ground between my toes and shoe. Ugh. I hated being dirty. I would've stripped off my shoes right then and there, but my poor feet needed all the support they could get, even if it was from dingy rubber flip-flops. My ragged messenger bag felt as if it had the world inside it.
If only.
I slowed down, matching each step to the beat of my heart. Still too fast. The wind rushed around me, whipping my golden bangs into my eyes. The dust picked up too, showering me in a wave of sand and dirt. I cursed the whether again. Stupid darn Texas. Finally I entered through the stone columns that marked my prison: Sawyer Ranch. I slowed down until I was barely crawling, letting the sun make its mark on me. Who would care if I burned to death? If only I could be that lucky.
"I'm home," I called, much too loudly, letting the sound echo its way back to me. Like anyone cared.
"Danielle!" my grandmother cried in a shrill voice, sweeping down the stairs like a dove. Except she looked more like a crow with her flat black eyes and gray-streaked black hair. He skin was wrinkled and withered around her beady little rat's eyes as they analyzed your every move, plastered to her thin face like bark hugging a tree. She was incapable of smiling. I wondered if that was because she couldn't with her frail skin or just because she loathed everything. Friends, family, co-workers, wounded animals. . .
Oh, yeah. And especially me.
"Stand up straight!" she snapped and fluttered towards me. I immediately straightened my posture and tried to rub the worst of the grime off my face. She circled me slowly, one claw-like finger tapping her lip like I was a piece of meat for selling. She grunted. "It'll do. Now go make my spaghetti. An old friend is stopping by for dinner and I need everything in prime condition. Move!" she bellowed the last word as I flew up the stairs, my schoolbooks thumping rhythmically into my side as I retreated.
I sighed as I entered my room, after stumbling up the six-feet rickety latter separating my "bedroom" from the rest of the house. It had been an attic, but my grandmother had so graciously cleared everything out for me, leaving an air mattress, dresser, and a lamp that was no doubt a serious fire hazard. The social workers had let me take a few things from home, like a roll top desk, candles, and a mirror. Everything was stained dark, besides the mirror. The glass was clean and smooth, polished daily, set inside the metal frame. It had no colors, but the metal twisted and twined gently into flower patterns, climbing the side like it were alive, desperate to reach the sun. I traced the soft rose gently with my finger, like coaxing it to live.
"Start cleaning!" I heard her shout from somewhere downstairs, then the blare of the TV as she settled in to watch her favorite reality shows.
I sighed again and plopped onto my mattress and put my head between my knees. After rising before the sun then scrubbing down the whole house, my feet and legs were aching. Then I went to school. I longed to lay my head against the pillow and never wake up, but reality was calling. I grabbed the bucket from the 2x2 closet and set to work with the mop.
After several hours of vigorous mopping, scrubbing, and polishing, the house was finally in order.
"Go clean up," Grandmother ordered and gave me a slap for good measure.
"Yes, Grandmother," I mumbled and slipped up the stairs as quietly and quickly as possible. I barely made it to my bed before I collapsed on my abused feet. I made a mental note to ice them later, and groaned as I stood up to shower. I gathered my black-and-white ensemble and trooped to the shower. I was very disappointed with the face in the mirror. Who was this terribly average girl with matted hair and in need of a good bath? Surely not me, with her sunken eyes and empty expression. Not me with the age and suffering of a forty-year-old etched onto my fourteen-year-old skin. But it was, and all my fruitless hoping couldn't change that. I sighed and let the hot water of the shower pound my tight shoulders. It burned a little on the welts from the belt, but I scrubbed my skin clean, biting my lip as the stinging started. As I reluctantly turned the shower off, I wondered vaguely if it were tears or bathwater rolling down my face.
After twisting my hair into a honey-colored doughnut at the nape of my neck and spritzing myself with lavender spray, I finally felt able to go downstairs. Mercifully, my grandmother is a believer of sensible footwear, so I am spared the tragedy of heels and I'm wearing my slender black sneakers. I'd cleansed my fingernails and skin till they gleamed. Hopefully I'm presentable.
My grandmother surveys me speculatively as I come downstairs. She snaps a short "satisfactory" before sweeping into the dining room, meaning I am to present the first course. The heavy silver tray feels smooth and familiar in my hands, and I go over the rules of guests: I am not to speak; I am not to complain; if someone compliments me, I am to merely nod.
I hitch the try high on my shoulder and ghost into the dining room. My grandmother sits there at the table, making dumb small talk and laughing at jokes that aren't funny. Her wine glass totters unsteadily in her hand as she reaches to refill it. The guests smile politely at me: a short, balding man about five years younger than his partner, a tall, stick-skinny woman with rattling bangles and blood-red lipstick. I walk past with my head down, serving and refilling water glasses; my grandmother is the only one who has taken even a sip of wine. The woman smiles kindly at me, and I flash her a brief, closed-lip smile when I thought my grandmother wasn't looking.
As I wait in the kitchen for the shout for dessert, my day catches up with me. I wish I had a book. I wish I had stolen that nap in Algebra. I wish I had never been born. Because when you're not alive, you never have to clean.
"Danielle," my grandmother slurs from the table, "Dessert. Now."
I shuffle inside and lay an elegantly iced slice of chocolate cake in front of them. The woman takes a glance and says, "Did you make this? It's beautiful." She pauses to take a bite. "And delicious," she added after swallowing. The man nods his agreement.
I give a slow nod. "Thank you," I whisper. The woman gives me a quizzical look, but I can't answer because my grandmother seems to come to life.
"Oh, well, look at the time. I bet you must be on your way." She stands up without even looking at the cake and begins to say goodbye. The woman notices and her eyes harden just a bit. "Goodbye, Jane, Dan. Have a lovely evening," Grandmother trills as she waves them out the door. I see Dan snidely swipe the cake before walking to the hallway. I smile just a little as I go to fetch their coats from the hook in the kitchen. As Jane is sliding into her coat, she says to me, "Oh, how pretty you are, dear. What's your name?"
Grandmother pokes me in the back just hard enough to make me wince slightly. "Danielle," I mumble without meeting her eyes.
"Well, Danielle, it was delicious. Thank you." I nod. Jane's smile falters slightly as she steps out the door. "Goodbye," she calls over her shoulder, but the door was already swinging shut. Grandmother gives me an icy glare. I shut my eyes, waiting for the sting of the palm to my cheek, or the protest when my hair is pulled.
"I don't want you making such an impression again," Grandmother growls. "You work for me."
"I'm your granddaughter," I whisper, but she hears me.
"But your mother was no daughter of mine," she barked. "Running off to marry that lousy dirt bag of man at eighteen. Then what does he go and do? He leaves her! And she dies grieving over him!" Her eyes flash as a wave of torture washes through me. "Therefore, you are no granddaughter of mine." I feel the hot flash of pain of the belt on my legs. "You are an employee. And employees who don't do their job are fired."
"How do I not do my job?" I mumble to the floor. "I get up before dawn and scrub this whole house spotless. I'm a straight-A student. I come back and cook and clean and do everything I'm supposed to without a word." My monologue fades into silence as my head droops more to the floor. I knew this was a wrong move. The sting hits me once, twice, three times more. A yanking of the hair and a shove toward the stairs ends it, and Grandmother sweeps off to bed without a goodnight.
The tears start before I can stop them, flowing hot and fast down my face as I stumble blindly to my room. It takes all my energy not to dive headfirst onto my bed; I strip down and fall to my knees in my underwear, ripping my hair out of its bun. I yank a sweatshirt over my head and stumble to my desk. I reach into the drawer and fumble for the matches. I strike one swiftly across the coarse square and it blazes to life. I waved it across the desk, casting the whole room into luminous shadow. I pull out my notebook and begin to write:
I swept across the darkness into the glistening moonlight. I feel the pursuit behind me, but no attack is coming. Yet. I creep quieter into the forest, and the leaves cease crunching as I slip off my boots. I look up at the full moon, acting as my unearthly guide. I marvel over its beauty, but my lapse in attention could be deadly.
Suddenly there are leaves crunching behind me. I don't dare even to breathe. Then the heavy footfalls are upon me, and I'm diving into the dirt, the forest floor. A heavy weight is on my back, and I can't breathe. I begin to scream. . . .
My fatigue overpowers me, and as my head lies gently onto the desk, I could swear I heard an echoing scream. The cool dark wood is pressing on my cheek, inviting dreams, inviting an escape, so I float willingly into the darkness.